


Of Mouslings and Men

by dornfelder



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: HP: EWE, M/M, Sex Pollen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-24
Updated: 2012-01-24
Packaged: 2017-10-30 01:33:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/326289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dornfelder/pseuds/dornfelder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry encounters the Subspecies of Doom. He also realises he likes chocolate frogs a lot, despite his greatest efforts to convince himself otherwise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Mouslings and Men

**Author's Note:**

> Submission for HD smoochfest 2010. Betas: kristan1, tigersilver

**Of Mouslings and Men**  
  
  
 **End of July**  
  
The Ministry is infested by mice.  
  
Actually, they're not common mice, but magical ones; a rare and protected species called mouslings. They do look suspiciously like the non-magical variety, with fur and tails and whiskers, beady eyes and tiny ears. But Harry learns soon enough they're anything but ordinary.  
  
Strange things happen in the presence of mouslings, things that can't be explained by logic, or even the laws and rules applying to magic.  
  
In all these years he's been living in the Wizarding world, Harry's seen a lot of strange things, and been witness to – and victim of – powerful magic more often than he can count. Ever since the day Hagrid told him he was a wizard and therefore destined to attend Hogwarts' School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, he has learned something new about magic every single day. The process of learning hasn't come to an end yet. By now, Harry thinks there are very few things that can still surprise him.  
  
He discovers that mouslings are most definitely one of them.  
  
For one, they're far more powerful than they have the right to be, given their size and the fact they're not sentient. They do magic all the time, _just like that_ , like breathing or sleeping or eating, and the effects are almost impossible to reverse or counter. A simple _Finite Incantatem_ doesn't suffice.  
  
Mouslings also do _very_ strange kinds of magic. Depending on the subspecies they belong to – apparently, there are quite a lot of those – they'll set random objects on fire or leave traces of glue wherever they scamper, or they'll make anything they come in contact with change colour, or turn pieces of metal into green, slimy goo.  
  
At first, Harry laughs about it and thinks they're hilarious. They make life interesting, that's for sure, and every morning he looks forward to hearing the latest gossip about the incidents the tiny creatures cause.  
  
The day he's coerced to wear lilac Auror robes after hand-to-hand combat classes in the morning, however, he's inclined to change his mind. Lilac is not a colour he'd choose to wear of his own volition, _ever_ , and hearing Ginny snicker behind his back makes it hard to pretend he doesn't care. He likes having Ginny as a partner, he really does, but she's insufferable sometimes. Harry's glad they're not dating anymore.  
  
Fortunately, the next day brings an opportunity to avenge himself. He notices the mousling sitting under Ginny's desk while she's engaged in completing paperwork for Auror Sandhurst, but he pretends not to see it and watches from a safe distance when she accidentally grazes it with her foot. The mousling squeaks, and the next moment Ginny's sitting in a cloud of foul-smelling greenish mist.  
  
“Oops,” Harry says, shrugging in false sympathy, and eats a left-over chocolate frog from his canteen lunch, knowing exactly how the mist will drench Ginny's clothes and make them stink for days. _Subspecies 12_ , he registers with satisfaction, _afflicting the victim with the pervasive smell of faeces_.  
  
Ginny glares at Harry.  
  
After the mist has done its initial work, Harry manages to banish the remnants with a lazy swish of his wand. He knows, though, that casting a cleaning spell on Ginny's clothes will be futile, and grins at her.  
  
“Better change before dinner,” he suggests. “Molly might object to you reeking of dog poop.”  
  
Ginny gives him a sweet smile that doesn't reach her eyes. It's a look that says she won't forget his comment. She's got a long memory when it comes to thinks like that.  
  
“Thank you ever so much, Harry.”  
  
“That's the final test for Mike, you know. If he snogs you while you're smelling like that, you can be sure he's _madly_ in love with you.”  
  
Ginny's eyes narrow. “If I were you, I'd keep my mouth shut,” she says. “You don't want me to tell Sarah about one or two of your funnier moments during training this morning, do you?”  
  
Harry sighs. He knew it was a bad idea to date the sister of his ex-girlfriend's ex-ex-boyfriend, or something like that. But going out with Sarah is fun. He's still waiting for the final straw that will finally make him fall in love with her, but he's sure it will happen soon.  
  
  
 **Early August**  
  
A few days later, Harry and Ginny, who are both late for their Stealth and Tracking class, realise belatedly that the elevator they're using is occupied by a mousling. Subspecies 23 manages to swap their colour of hair and eyes. The effect lasts until late afternoon.  
  
As Harry's ill luck would have it, he meets Malfoy on his way to the canteen at noon. He tries to ignore him, but it's not easy, not with Malfoy smirking openly and raising a mocking eyebrow at him.  
  
“You're spending too much time with the Weaslette, Potter, and it's showing.”  
  
“Shut up, Malfoy,” he replies, blushing and suddenly at a loss for something more cutting. At least the mousling hasn't switched their complexions too. He can do _so_ without freckles.  
  
“Witty comeback,” Malfoy retorts with a sneer. “I do pray you didn't have to overexert your brain thinking that up.”  
  
“As if you were worth the hassle of a meaningful dialogue, Malfoy.”  
  
“Your insults really do lack subtlety, you know. But then, Aurors aren't known to be exactly articulate anyway, are they?”  
  
“Oh, piss off.”  
  
Malfoy shrugs and eyes him sceptically. “I never thought your hair could get any worse than it is. Obviously, I was mistaken.”  
  
Harry clenches his teeth and restrains himself from hexing Malfoy with a stinging hex. Malfoy is awfully smug these days, as an Unspeakable-in-training. As if that were a job to be proud of.  
  
Harry refuses to admit that maybe it actually is: the Unspeakables only take on wizards or witches who are extraordinarily talented. Malfoy probably is the exception to these rules and has only managed to become a trainee by bribing a corrupt Ministry bureaucrat.  
  
Only that he's not a trainee, of course, but an _acolyte_ , as the Unspeakables call them, probably just to make it sound more important. Which, without a doubt, adds to Malfoy's air of self-importance and his haughty demeanour, just like the expensive black robes he's wearing, or the ominous silver pendant around his neck. Poncy git.  
  
  
 **Middle of August**  
  
Harry still thinks mouslings are mostly harmless. Annoying, yes, but not evil. It's just the enormous number that makes them a real threat to the Ministry as the weeks go by and they proliferate, breeding like rabbits. There are literally hundreds of them, or maybe thousands; cluttering up the canteen, loitering aimlessly in the bathrooms, lolling about in the offices and everywhere else one can think of.  
  
Mouslings seldom do any real, lasting damage to furniture, parchment or papers. They don't steal food - except for cheese, but then, they wouldn't be _mous_ lings if they didn't - since they feed off magic. That's the reason they prosper at the Ministry in the first place: the whole building is filled to brim with magic and enchanted objects. The walls, floors, ceilings; even the very air contains magic. Mouslings _love_ it.  
  
Their mere presence, however, causes mayhem, and that's no good in a place like the Ministry, which is responsible for ruling Wizarding Britain.  
  
Some mouslings counter spells. The Aurors who discover their magical handcuffs won't work properly are _not_ amused when their suspects decide to defect in the middle of an interrogation.  
  
Some mouslings frighten people with their squeaks. Two first-year Auror trainees consider quitting after spending two hours in a bathroom cubicle, hiding from subspecies 7, an especially large and fanged variety with bushy whiskers and a _penetrating_ shriek of a squeak.  
  
Other mouslings cause one to feel happy, or sleepy, or giddy. Rumour has it that the Minister himself recently had an encounter with subspecies 16, which forces anyone who spots it to become affectionate and dreamy. It's said that Shacklebolt started petting his secretary's hair and then called in an impromptu conference with all his department heads, hugging every single participant in the beginning and feeding them fairy cakes with a tender smile, murmuring sweet endearments the entire time.  
  
Nobody knows the source of the infestation. Some people believe it's a Death Eater conspiracy to bring down the Ministry from within, or that it's Voldemort's doing – which, more than three years after the final battle, Harry thinks unlikely, but one never knows with Old Snakeface.  
  
The _Daily Prophet_ hints that the Department of Mysteries might be at fault, because the Unspeakables are a very suspicious lot _per se_ ; or maybe the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, where some mouslings may have escaped from captivity in the research labs.  
  
Harry has overheard his superior, Auror Instructor Ophelia Sandhurst, talking to Head Auror Robards, both of them speculating whether it might be an act of sabotage caused by underpaid Ministry employees.  
  
Making assumptions and guesses about the source of the infestation might be interesting, but it doesn't help to solve the actual problem. The mouslings make it impossible to work properly. By the fourth week, they have almost taken over the Ministry, and every attempt to get rid of them has proven ineffective.  
  
As a protected species, mouslings must not be killed. Although Harry is ready to bet Shacklebolt has considered changing the law after the hugging incident, but that takes time, and there's nothing to be done about it now. A solution is needed as soon as possible, though.  
  
  
 **End of August**  
  
The incident with the French ambassador on Wednesday evening is the final straw. When Harry comes to work on Thursday, it's the only thing people talk about. No one knows exactly what has happened to the French delegation in the heavily warded conference room once the mouslings gained access, but it must have been a disaster of epic proportions. The ambassador apparently brought a collection of traditional French cheeses as a gift, either being unaware of the mousling infestation or the fact that mouslings become _a tad_ overexcited whenever they smell cheese of any kind.  
  
There are many speculations on the topic, especially regarding the various subspecies that were involved, but the secretaries who were present at the conference are sworn to secrecy. In an official statement, the Minister merely explained that the meeting had to be cancelled because of ‘unforeseeable complications’.  
  
After announcing a temporary halt of all current international negotiations, and in that way placing Britain under a de facto quarantine, Shacklebolt headed home. Today, he's floo-called in sick.  
  
A few hours into Thursday morning, the Ministry is almost completely deserted. Whoever is able to take time off, does just that, and whoever can go on holiday does that, too. The only ones left are the unfortunate trainees, indispensable under-secretaries, apprentices and people who deem themselves too important to leave, such as Percy Weasley.  
  
There's a small task force, consisting of three Aurors, two Unspeakables and two under-secretaries from the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, Hermione being one of them. They try to develop a strategy on how to regain control of the situation, but on Thursday evening, there's still no major breakthrough as far as Harry can tell.  
  
Harry envies Ginny. She's at home, flu-suffering – for real, that is - and doesn't have to deal with mouslings of any kind. Especially after he's been enchanted by another mousling and spends half an hour in the loo, being violently sick and disposing of his lunch. Subspecies 19 is not to be underestimated. It smells of whatever one hates most. In Harry's case, it's rotten vegetables. He remembers stealing them from the rubbish bin on a few occasions when his aunt and uncle refused to give him proper food. Nowadays, he hates the smell with a passion, and he's never, ever going to eat anything but fresh groceries willingly.  
  
On Friday evening, Harry, Ron and Hermione are sitting in a small café in Muggle London, their favourite place to go during the week. On weekends, they meet with friends in Diagon Alley or Hogsmeade, but too many curious people recognise them there, especially when it's just the three of them together. Friday evenings are different: it's always only them with no one else intruding; it's easy and relaxed, they chat about work or family or whatever's bothering them. Today, of course, it's the mouslings.  
  
“We've discovered three new subspecies so far,” Hermione explains, eyes alight with excitement. “The Ministry provides the perfect environment for the evolution process; it's amazing.”  
  
Harry rolls his eyes. “Yes, and that's _really_ bloody wonderful. As if they were in any way useful.”  
  
“Oh, I don't know about that,” Ron says. “They're providing George with a lot of brilliant ideas, as it is. I've rarely seen him for the past two weeks. He's always in the lab, testing theories and working on methods to replicate mousling magic.”  
  
He looks thoughtful all of a sudden. “It would be easier if he had a few of them to experiment with. I already thought – you couldn't probably provide us with some, mate?”  
  
His words are directed at Harry, but before Harry can reply, Hermione has already elbowed Ron none too gently.  
  
“Ow!” Ron complains, wincing, and rubs his ribs. “What was that for?”  
  
“Mouslings are protected, Ronald,” she scolds. “Of course Harry wouldn't do that.”  
  
Harry is inclined to disagree. He's been victim of the mouslings' magic too often during the last few weeks. It would be a satisfying revenge, albeit a little pointless, since the little monsters aren't sentient and won't realise. But he knows better than to mention that as long as Hermione is listening. When Ron glances at him, hoping for support, Harry just shrugs and takes a sip of his beer.  
  
“Really, Hermione, it's not as if we wanted to mash them to extract magical juice, or something. Luna is there all the time, and you know her, she'd never harm a fly! It's just, it would be so _useful_ to research them some more,” Ron says almost wistfully, completely oblivious to Hermione's incredulous glare.  
  
“Uh, Ron -” Harry starts, wincing when he realises he's once more stuck between a rock and a hard place, left with no chance to escape without pissing off at least one of his best friends.  
  
“What? I mean, they're awesome, doing magic just _like that_ , and George's already thinking about a new product line, something like 'Mousling Marbles' sold in a goody bag. I bet if we could just experiment a bit with their cerebral tissue, we could...” And Ron rambles on, not realising he's just contradicted his own assurance to Hermione that there's no intention to hurt the mouslings.  
  
Twenty minutes later, the waves have finally subsided enough that Ron and Hermione aren't yelling at each other any longer, and Harry is grumpy and thoroughly annoyed. Why does it always have to be him who has to witness their arguments? There's nothing he can do to make them shut up; as soon as he complains or snaps at one of them, the other one gets protective, and they immediately forget about their disagreement to join forces against him. Which is so totally unfair Harry doesn't even know where to begin complaining about it.  
  
Really, it would be much easier if they weren't a couple, but then, he doesn't want to imagine them breaking up, ever. It seems he simply has to live with it, to all eternity, which is a truly frightening prospect.  
  
About an hour later, they're still talking about the damn nuisances – mouslings – as if there was nothing of more importance in the whole world.  
  
Hermione sighs. “It's a pity, really. I mean, of course we have to remove them from the Ministry, but... they're so cute. It's the whiskers, I think – or the tiny ears...”  
  
“If only we _could_ ,” Harry replies, unable to hide his dark mood any longer, but restraining himself from adding, _but your task force has yet to come up with a solution for **that**_.  
  
“Oh, we're working on it,” Hermione says. “Actually, we've got an idea, and I think it'll work, but we have to make a few preparations yet. It might take a while.”  
  
Harry's more than a little cross. Hermione sits in a warded, mousling-free office, spending her time with research and animated brainstorming discussions, in short, the things she likes best anyway, while he has to run errands for his superiors, do a ludicrous amount of paperwork and try to avoid enchantment. Auror training is cancelled, because all their instructors are on holiday, and the remaining Aurors have to deal with the work-overload. Hermione's much too cheerful for Harry's taste.  
  
“What's the great flash of inspiration?” Harry asks with as much sarcasm as he can master - rather a lot, at this point. “The ingenious brainwave for how to get rid of magical mice? Please, enlighten us.”  
  
Hermione looks affronted. Ron raises a curious eyebrow, as if silently wondering why Harry's is acting so weird all of a sudden.  
  
“I don't know why you're snapping at _me_!” Hermione complains. “It's not as if I were responsible for the whole thing, you know.” She closes her mouth, a tight-lipped line of disapproval, and goes silent.  
  
Harry sighs. All right, so maybe it's not the best idea to antagonise her. Hermione tends to bear grudges. “Sorry,” he mutters. “I'm in a foul mood. Of course it's not your fault.”  
  
But even though he apologises to her repeatedly, Hermione refuses to tell him whatever it is the task force is planning.

 

  
 **September 1st**  
  
The back garden of the Dragon's Tail is crowded, the smell of sweat, smoke, beer and late summer heavy in the air. They're sharing two tables in the centre of the yard, Ron and Hermione, Seamus and Padma, George and Luna; Lee and Katie, Hannah and Harry.  
  
Apart from Hannah, Harry, is the only one here without a partner, and Hannah doesn't count: she's been with Neville for a year now, and they're still hopelessly enamoured with each other, to the point where they can hardly spend an evening apart without sighing and mooning over their missing lover.  
  
Neville's occupied this evening, harvesting the leaves of moonlight lilies at Hogwarts, or at least that's what Hannah tells Harry. She sits next to him, drinking her butterbeer and checking her watch constantly, quite obviously distracted and counting the seconds until she'll be reunited with her beloved.  
  
Secretly, Harry is glad that Sarah isn't there tonight. He likes her. She's fun to be with; lively and clever and easy-going; very pretty, too, with blue eyes, ridiculously long lashes and hair as dark and unruly as his. They've met a few times when they went out with Ginny and Michael, and in the last three weeks, they've dated twice.  
  
Last time they went out, they went to a Muggle cinema to catch a horror movie, and Harry escorted her home afterwards. But it was Sarah who pulled him in for a kiss in front of her apartment building, and whose hands found their way under Harry's shirt and caressed his bare skin, fingertips grazing the waistband of his trousers in a suggestive way. And now Harry feels awkward and a little shy, because she probably expects him to take the next step, and he isn't quite ready for it just yet.  
  
A part of him just wants to stall and not think about it at all, and another part wonders if maybe he's a little weird, a bit screwed in the head. Young men are supposed to want sex all the time, and never waste an occasion, aren't they?  
  
He doesn't know why, but since the end of the war, something's been missing; something's lacking. And Harry's not sure what it is – calling it his _passion_ would be unbearably cheesy – but that might be just the right term, if he's completely honest with himself.  
  
Ever since the final battle there's a certain emptiness inside him, and he feels hollow. Not that he's unhappy; not at all. But he remembers rather clearly how he felt in sixth year when he was in love with Ginny; how it made him both euphoric and insecure, elated and desperate at the same time; how every look, every touch and then, a little later, every kiss made him dizzy with want and the amazing intensity of his feelings.  
  
After the war he merely felt numb, relieved that it was finally over. Also guilty and sad, but mostly numb and weary. He'd told himself it would only take a little time until it got better, that maybe dying and coming back had changed him, but not irrevocably so, that things would go back to normal and he'd be in love with Ginny all over again.  
  
A few months on, they'd got back together, but it simply hadn't been the same, and even the addition of shagging to their relationship, inexperienced fumbling and first-time awkwardness aside, didn't change the fact that what he'd once felt for her was well and truly gone.  
  
After a few more fairly satisfying, but not exactly spectacular attempts of having sex, they realised they spent more time tattling about Percy, Quidditch and forthcoming Auror training than making out, and finally accepted they were better off as friends, or, as Ginny phrased it on the memorable afternoon they broke up: “I love you Harry. In a way, I always have, and I guess I always will. I love Ron, too, and I really wouldn't want to date him.”  
  
That very same evening, in the kitchen of the Burrow, Molly hugged him and told him in a quiet, sincere voice, so unlike her usual cheerfulness: “You'll always be part of our family, and you'll always have a place here. You don't need to marry my daughter to justify it.”  
  
And that, as they say, was that.  
  
Since then, Harry hasn't met a girl who evoked more than the warm, fuzzy feeling of companionship and camaraderie in him – not even Sarah. Maybe he simply isn't that interested in sex. Some people are supposed to be asexual; maybe he's one of them. Or perhaps, if he actually gets a grip on himself and stops being so _freakily fucked up_ , he'll be able to see what's right in front of him and appreciate it instead of moping about like a sop and waiting for something that doesn't even exist.  
  
Looking around the table, seeing happy couples sprouting up everywhere like fungus, Harry feels lonely and lost, and he thinks, if only he could overcome his issues, maybe he could sit here with Sarah instead, and then tries to ignore the tiny voice inside his head that tells him being with Sarah wouldn't make much of a difference.  
  
He listens to George telling a joke, with Luna laughing at inappropriate moments, whenever she thinks anything's funny, regardless of whether the others agree or not. George strokes her thigh under the table in a tender, not necessarily sexual, but affectionate and proprietary way. Whenever George looks at her, his expression is a mixture of astonishment and adoration, as if he can't quite believe his own luck, or that he's found it in this very special person.  
  
Ron and Hermione are bickering as usual, all the while holding hands and rarely ever letting go. If Ginny and Michael were here, they'd be snogging by now, Ginny on his lap and with her hands tangled in Michael's hair.  
  
Harry could probably have that, too, if he tried a little harder. It's a depressing thought, and he empties his glass of beer quickly and orders another.  
  
  
 **September 3rd**  
  
When the mousling task force finally explains their plan on Monday morning, Harry desperately wishes he'd stayed at home, hidden under his blankets and cowardly enough to stay there for an indefinite amount of time.  
  
Instead, he is sent to the third floor with a cage in his hand and a big messenger bag, filled with diced cheese and potent antidotes, slung around his waist.  
  
It turns out that the magnificent strategy to get rid of the mouslings means they have to trap each and every single one of them by hand, lure them in the cage and have them portkeyed to a dragon reservation in Wales. Obviously, mouslings and dragons coexist quite successfully, with the mouslings feeding off dragon magic and the dragons feeding off all the predators the mouslings attract. A win-win-situation for anyone but the poor trainees that are sent out to entrap the mouslings.  
  
In the late afternoon, Harry is ready to kill anyone, even Hermione, who suggests this might be a good plan to start with.  
  
He's caught about thirty mouslings so far, give or take some, and he's still no closer to finishing his task than he was hours ago. He's been enchanted seven times. His robes have changed colour twice, his shoelaces still keep moving like serpents, as they have for about three hours, and the hair on his right forearm is slightly singed.  
  
Harry's hungry and exhausted and wants to go home. But he can't, not yet. The task force emphasised repeatedly how important it is to catch all the mouslings as soon as possible, because they proliferate with an astonishing speed, and the more mouslings are gone from the Ministry, the more the remaining ones will breed. Everyone will have to work overtime, and they can't allow the mouslings time to rest. They'll work in shifts of twelve hours at least, and only take short breaks to sleep for a few hours and grab something to eat. If the Ministry hadn't promised to pay a bonus for every additional hour and a bounty for every mousling, captured, even the most loyal employees would have quit in utter disgust after the first few hours.  
  
Not that Harry needs the extra money. But the sooner they get rid of the little beasts, the sooner things will return to normal, and after more than a month of mousling domination, he'll be heartily glad if he doesn't have to deal with them anymore. Filing papers and taking magical law classes has never been an alluring prospect before. At least, not for Harry. But then, that's what the little buggers will do to people.  
  
Harry's currently making his way through the research division of the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes. He knows the area quite well: the Aurors often work with the DMAC, and it's usually the Auror trainees that have to deliver files and urgent messages there. He's just finished cleaning a small office on the west corridor, having caught two mouslings in it. The second one was much harder to bait. It took half an hour to lure it into the cage, and he had to resort to using Blue Stilton. Apparently, that one belonged to subspecies 9, therefore being able to sense emotions and intentions. Harry is still pants at Occlumency, and it's no wonder the poor creature refused to come out. For an empathic being, his anger and frustration probably felt like an assault with an Unforgivable.  
  
Harry departs the office, nearly stumbling, for the twentieth time, over his unruly shoelaces. Trying to retain his balance, he's slightly distracted and promptly ends up colliding with another person who’s strolling along the corridor.  
  
“Ow,” he complains, rubbing his arms where he's been hit with something hard and sharp-edged.  
  
“Watch were you're going, Potter,” a familiar voice snarls, and Harry groans. He didn't think his day could get any worse, but obviously he's mistaken.  
  
“What are you doing here, Malfoy?”  
  
“I'm _working_ , Potter. That much should be obvious, even to you,” Malfoy replies, holding up his own cage.  
  
“Working, Malfoy? Really? That would be a first.” _Pretending to work while snooping around, that's more like it,_ Harry thinks. He doesn't believe for a moment Malfoy is actually trying to catch mouslings.  
  
Malfoy sneers. “You're still a complete tosser, aren't you? Still the same arrogant little shit you were at school. I wonder how you manage to walk at all, with your inflated ego being about the size of a blast-ended skrewt, and having about the same appeal, too.”  
  
“You're one to talk, Malfoy; if someone here is a self-absorbed bastard, it's you. At least I've earned my position here on my own merits, and not with Daddy's galleons,” Harry retorts, wondering how it happens every time he meets Malfoy his blood starts to boil.  
  
Malfoy pales with fury. If they were still at school, they'd no doubt have their wands drawn by now, and likely be throwing hexes at each other.  
  
“That's rich, coming from you. What kind of merits are you talking about anyway? Defeating the Dark Lord by sheer luck, and with Granger doing your brainwork all the time? You've never even taken your NEWTS. They took you in solely because you're the fucking Saviour of the Wizarding World, that's all, and not because you're any good at what you're doing!”  
  
“At least I fought against Voldemort, and didn't bow down to that mutated, batshit-crazy megalomaniac by choice!”  
  
“Stating the obvious, as usual, I might add, and, Potter, really, it's getting old, that habit you have of wallowing in your own glorious self-righteousness all the time,” Malfoy spits. “And don't you dare tell me that if you 'd been in my place, if you'd had a family to fight for, to protect, you wouldn't have done exactly the same as I did. You're a bloody hypocrite if you truly believe I had any other choice!”  
  
Malfoy's chest is heaving with his heavy, fast breaths, and he glares at Harry with defiance and scorn.  
  
Harry glares back, not knowing what to say, because for once he can see Malfoy isn't – _might_ not be – completely wrong. They were both just boys back then, caught in a battle of grown-ups, and he knows all to well things aren't as black and white as people tend to think they are, himself included.  
  
Malfoy grips his cage tightly and moves along, his steps hard and determined as he brushes past Harry. Over his shoulder, Malfoy hisses a final, “Just stay the fuck out of my way!” at Harry, and heads for the next deserted office, where he disappears behind a wooden door that's shut from within with unnecessary force.  
  
“Fine,” Harry snarls, and to make a point bangs the door of the room he's just left with equal fervour. He marks it with his wand to sign it's now clear of mouslings, and if the swish of his wand is a little less steady than he'd like it to be, well, there's no one here to witness.  
  
Three hours later, about half past eight, Harry enters an office in the Obliviator division. It's a vast room, a part of the hallway rather than a single office, fitted up with a couple of desks, a waiting area where two ancient sofas are set face-to-face, and a few cubicles divided by half-walls where wizards and witches can wait for the Obliviator on duty if they, for whatever reason, come here willingly.  
  
Harry casts a detecting spell that indicates that no less than thirteen mouslings reside in here. _Thirteen._ He sighs, internally resigned. This will take a while.  
  
Grimly, he sets to work. He puts the cage in the centre of the room, takes a piece of cheese, charmed to be odourless, and places it inside the cage. He casts a sloppy _Finite Incantatem_ on the cheese to lift the charm, sits back on an empty chair, and waits. It's warm, so he sheds his robes and throws them over the backrest of another chair.  
  
Minutes go by. Then, finally, three mouslings creep out cautiously from under a desk. They approach the cage, curious and careless, and Harry casts a wordless _Engorgio_ to enlarge it so that the three of them will fit in. Soon enough, they enter the cage, and Harry spells the hatch door shut. To activate the inbuilt portkey device, however, he has to touch it with his wand, which is very, very unfortunate, because it means he has to get close to three now quite frightened, agitated mouslings. Whoever designed these cages is either a sadist or an incompetent fool. As soon as he gets out of here, he'll complain to Hermione in length and volume.  
  
Harry manages to sneak up on the cage and put the tip of his wand inside without causing a major incident. Heaving a sight of relief, he watches the mouslings vanish as soon as the portkey does its job. He restocks the cage with another device and another bit of cheese. Harry places it next to a dustbin this time.  
  
Half an hour later, there are still six mouslings left to capture. Harry sets the cage down by the door and deposits one of his last pieces of cheese inside. It's Cheddar this time. Frowning, he muses over the fact that he won't be able to get the smell of cheese out of his nose for _weeks_. He can't imagine eating it ever again without thinking of mouslings. One more reason to hate them with a vengeance.  
  
Harry slumps down at the other side of the door, with his back against the wall, and attempts to stay awake by reciting Auror protocol rules in his head. This tactic doesn't work very well, but he has to stay still, or he won't be able to catch the little buggers at all, which makes it even worse.  
  
His eyelids droop several times and threaten to stay shut. One or two times his head slips against the wall and drops to his shoulder, startling him awake, but in the end, he dozes off.  
  
He comes back to awareness with a start when the office door is forcefully opened. Three things happen at once: Harry draws his wand and casts a non-verbal shield charm reflexively before he even realises what's going on. Second, Draco Malfoy enters the room, stumbling over Harry's cage and falling to the floor. Three: the mousling that happens to be _inside_ the cage squeaks anxiously and gives off an impressive, bright purple spray of mist, which coats the door, the ceiling, parts of the wall, Malfoy, and Harry, penetrating his shield charm easily.  
  
The tiny droplets pelt his face and his hair, smelling of foul daisies and – _weird, that_ \- of treacle tart and the woodsy scent of a broom handle, but that might be simply Harry's imagination. After all, he's just woken up and is still disoriented and acting on instinct.  
  
It's impressive, really, how such tiny creatures manage to make such a mess, Harry observes and wipes his face with his sleeve before turning his attention to the intruder.  
  
There's Malfoy, getting up from the floor in a heap of tangled black robes and clanging metal cages, soaked by the mousling's singular emission, and muttering something like “Oh, shite, what the bloody hell was _that_?” when it should be obvious even to the blond git what just happened, thanks to his ill-advised entrance.  
  
Harry groans and stumbles to his feet, just like Malfoy. He doesn't sense any immediate after-effects of the mousling's magic, and tries to remember which subspecies this one belongs to. _Spray of purple liquid._ His foggy brain refuses to come up with anything useful.  
  
Malfoy turns to face him, one hand swiping over his face, and then he draws back and gazes at his red-stained fingers with a startled expression.  
  
“Malfoy,” Harry finally manages though gritted teeth. “Can't you enter a room like a decent human being instead of bursting through the door like a rabid hippogriff?”  
  
To his utter astonishment, Malfoy doesn't snap back immediately with an insult, or a sarcastic remark, or even a sneer. Instead his gaze wanders from his hand to the cage with the squeaking, rampaging mousling on the floor.  
  
“Er – what?” he asks, sounding distracted and confused and not at all like his usual self.  
  
“What's wrong with you?” Harry asks, disgusted and a little wary.  
  
Malfoy doesn't reply at first. Instead, he lifts his head and stares at Harry like he's never seen him before.  
  
“Sorry. I'm sorry,” he says, and he sounds sincere, but Harry doesn't know why, and it's more than a little suspicious.  
  
“You're – you're _what_?”  
  
The mousling chooses this moment to jump with all its might, the cage moving a little, rolling a few inches on the floor until it stops right at Malfoy's feet. It's still giving off little puffs of purple, but they are nowhere near as strong as before.  
  
“Wait. Wait,” Harry says. “You – you simply come banging in here like – like _that_ \- and now you say you're sorry – what's _wrong_ with you?”  
  
“Potter,” Malfoy replies in a strangled voice. “Shut up.”  
  
And, oddly enough, Harry does. Not because he's at a loss for words, or because he's in any way impressed by Malfoy's weird behaviour. Not at all.  
  
“I think – I really think -” Malfoy starts, and he pales even further, “It might be -”  
  
“What?” Harry says. “Talk some sense, will you? You prat.”  
  
“We might just – possibly - have... encountered... subspecies 42.”  
  
Malfoy makes his confession in a whisper, and Harry waits for a moment for him to go on, until he realises Malfoy doesn't intend to. But his expression is something akin to horror, and Harry is filled with a sense of foreboding.  
  
“And what, pray tell,” he asks, trying to keep his voice steady, “does subspecies 42 _do_?”  
  
Finally Malfoy meets his gaze again, and he doesn't avert his eyes while he tells Harry, “It's the same subspecies that made a cock-up of the meeting with the French ambassador, Potter,” in a tone that implies Harry is really, really dense.  
  
Harry is indeed clueless, not that he would admit to it normally, but he gets the feeling he's missing something vital. “ _What. Does. It. Do?_ ” he repeats his question, using the same over-patient tone as Malfoy and trying to stare him down. It doesn't work.  
  
Malfoy manages a sneer, although it seems a bit forced. “Don't tell me you don't know, Potter? Mr I'm-the-Chosen-One-and-so-important-that-t

he-world-wouldn't-turn-without-me? Why, I thought you knew everything, Scarhead.”

Harry absolutely refuses to take the bait. “Tell me,” he demands, his hand clenching around his wand. “Stop being an arsehole just this once, and tell me.”

“It's one of the mood-altering subspecies. That red mist – it makes you randy. They had a _revelry_ in the conference room, Potter, a fully fledged _orgy_ going on in there. The ambassador and his wife and his attendants and the under-secretaries from the Department of International Magical Cooperation and the Minister of Magic himself all participated, and they say that Shacklebolt buggered the ambassador's wife _and_ his personal assistant with the ambassador watching and making lewd comments.”

Harry's jaw drops.

“Tell me you're joking,” he says weakly after a long, unhappy moment of visualising.

Malfoy just shakes his head.

“That's not – that's not funny, Malfoy. Really.”

“Potter,” Malfoy assures him with a tormented expression, “Believe me, I wish I'd made this up. Listen – we really, really need to get out of here. _Now_.”

Harry still thinks Malfoy's lying. No, he's _sure_ Malfoy's lying, because he's in no way ready to believe he's been enchanted by a mousling that makes him want to have sex. What if he runs into someone he doesn't like?

“I don't believe you,” he states, telling himself it's not denial. If there really was a subspecies that made you horny as hell, he'd have heard of it by now, wouldn't he?

“Potter, for the last time, I am not joking, and we really must leave!” Malfoy is starting to sound a little frantic now. He turns around, without waiting for Harry's reply, and heads for the door.

“Maybe, if we're fast enough, we can still make it home in time...” and he's out of the door, leaving his cage behind and not caring, and Harry finally realises Malfoy's dead serious.

Yet it takes a few moments for him to come to terms with the fact that, for once, Malfoy is right, and he'd better get out of here before anything happens – anything, like perhaps wanting to jump the next available person. Before leaving the room, though, he activates the portkey device and watches the mousling he's caught disappear. Then he heads for the lift.

Only to find Malfoy there, waiting, just like him, and Malfoy is incredibly anxious by this point, shifting his weight from foot to foot, scratching his jaw and running a hand through his dishevelled hair. When Harry approaches the lift, Malfoy turns and hisses, “For Merlin's sake, Potter, can't you take the stairs? I'd rather we'd not be that close to each other right now!”

Harry glares at him. “The stairs are closed off, you twit.”

Malfoy looks at him, obviously considering his options. Then the lift stops at their floor, the door opens, and Harry is confronted with the sight of Percy Weasley and Dolores Umbridge. They're currently engaged in a animated conversation, and as if he were in a nightmare, Harry hears Percy say, “It would have been much more efficient, of course, if...”

Harry doesn't listen to what Percy says next, because next to him, Malfoy lets out an anguished groan, realising his quandary. Harry turns his head and looks at Malfoy, and Malfoy looks at Percy and Umbridge and then, slowly, turns his head and looks at Harry. His face is blank, but his eyes are wide, and Harry's not sure whether it's a sign of shock or horror, but whatever it is, he supposes it shows in his own eyes, too.

“Harry,” Percy greets him with an approving nod, while Umbridge's lips thin down to a tight line, and she refuses to acknowledge his presence any further than that. Draco's head snaps back in her direction and his grey eyes widen even further in a horror Harry can very well imagine, as he's actively sharing it.

There's no way in hell either of them is entering that particular lift – no fucking way.

A few moments pass.

Something like confusion dawns on Percy's face when neither Harry nor Malfoy make any attempts to enter the lift. But before he can say or do anything, the doors close again. Harry and Malfoy remain standing still.

“What,” Harry tries, licking his lips and clearing his suddenly dry throat. “What are we going to do now?”

Malfoy stares at the steel outer door of the lift shaft, refusing to turn his head. His breaths are shallow. “We... we head for opposite directions and lock ourselves in different offices as far away from each other as possible,” he says flatly with audible desperation.

Although it's completely odd, if not _wrong_ , to agree with Malfoy, Harry nods, says “Right,” and turns around to do just that.

Only then, the mousling's magic takes effect. It hits him like a punch to his stomach, and he doubles over and tries to catch his breath.

Harry hears Malfoy mutter, “No, oh, bloody hell, no, please,” in a muffled, miserable voice, and that's the moment he realises they're completely, utterly, entirely screwed.

  


**Middle of September**

Hermione wears her engagement ring, beaming with obvious pride, and doesn't hesitate to show it off in a very annoying manner to anyone who might be interested, and anyone who isn't, too.

Not that Harry's really surprised. It's been a long time coming, honestly. Now Ron has finally proposed and Molly's planning another wedding. Harry will be Ron's best man, and Ginny the maid of honour. He doesn't mind the responsibility, and he'd be really pissed off if they'd chosen anyone else, but it means he will have to dance at the celebration and possibly hold a speech. He's already convinced Ginny and Michael and George and Luna to practise dancing together, but he still needs a partner for that, and as if that wasn't bad enough already, Ron and Hermione and Molly and Ginny and pretty much everyone around keep asking whether he'll bring someone along, Sarah, possibly, or one of his fellow Auror trainees?

Fortunately, the wedding is planned for April, and there's enough time left to come up with a solution for his problem. For all of his problems. Harry tries really hard to convince himself that by then, he'll be in love with a gorgeous, delicate brunette girl with nice breasts, gently curved hips and a soft smile. And he'll most definitely not think of... no.

Just no.

On the plus side, the mouslings are finally gone.

 

**End of September**

Harry enters his house on Saturday evening. Grimmauld Place is dark, cold, and empty. Usually he doesn't mind the peace and quiet; it's like a silent welcome, and he's come to love the house, _his_ house, after all.

Grimmauld Place has changed a lot. It's _home_ now, with bright wallpapers and colourful rugs and a polished, antique wooden floor. He has magically enlarged the tiny windows and replaced the blank glass. Harry has saved a few of the nicer pieces of furniture, and he's kept Sirius' and Regulus' rooms both like they were. A few dubious items are stored away in the attic, along with a few questionable works from the library. But he's got rid of the rest, even the bitchy portrait of Walburga Black and the collection of house-elf heads, including Kreacher's, which had magically appeared on the wall the very day Professor McGonagall called him to tell him the old house-elf had passed away in his sleep at Hogwarts, and startled the bejesus out of a sleepy Harry.

Hermione and Ginny had helped him to renovate and furnish the house after the war, and afterwards, it wasn't _at all_ like he wanted it. In sheer desperation, he'd called in Ron and George and Neville, and they spent an evening going from room to room, getting rid of tawdry pictures of seagulls and roses and the frilly curtains (Ginny's fault) and expendable book-shelves and useful kitchenware (Hermione's doing). The girls didn't talk to them for a week afterwards.

Ever since that evening, Harry's quite happy with the house. Only tonight, coming home doesn't really feel like coming home. It's too quiet, too dark, and he doesn't want to be alone with his thoughts, his alcohol-befuddled brain and the memories he desperately wants to erase from his mind.

A little unsteady on his feet, Harry makes his way to the drawing room, turns on the lights and slumps down on his comfortable sofa. He toes off his shoes and lets his jacket fall to the floor. He lies there, unmoving, trying to convince himself that he had a great evening tonight, that he's pleasantly tipsy and not pathetically drunk.

It doesn't really work. So he sits up, staring morosely at the floor.

All right, so maybe he's lying to himself, and maybe he's in denial. A little.

He probably ought to floo-call Deirdre, see if she's got home all right, although she's a grown-up, a competent witch, and perfectly able to take care of herself, and lives only three streets from the Hog's Head where they parted ways tonight. But isn't that what a besotted soon-to-be boyfriend is supposed to do? It's only that, as much as he tries to convince himself otherwise, he's not particularly interested to know whether she's managed to return home without any incidents.

He's not in particularly interested in _her_.

_Bollocks_ , he thinks, scowling.

Harry has tried very hard to forget about all Malfoy in the last month. He went out with Sarah, pretending everything was all right. In the end it was she who told him she didn't think they'd work out, and that they should stay friends, and afterwards Harry almost managed to convince himself he was sad and hurt and heartbroken and not, definitely not the tiniest bit, relieved.

He went on a date with Alicia Spinnet. They talked about Quidditch and had a lot of fun drinking Guinness at a Muggle bar in Manchester, but _that_ , he could also do with Ron, and Ginny, and Seamus, and pretty much everyone apart from Hermione.

Tonight, he'd met up with Deirdre for the first time, one of Ginny's friends at the Ministry, and he was bored out of his mind the whole evening. And then, when she came back from the bathroom after dessert, her beautiful honey-coloured hair swaying over her hips, bestowing a sudden, playful smile upon him, Harry had thought of short, white blond hair, steel grey eyes and a contemptuous smirk, about _Malfoy_ , his scent and his broad shoulders and his lean body and _oh, God_ , his throat got suddenly dry and his trousers too tight. Time to go, really.

Maybe, just maybe, it's time to stop deluding himself.

Harry closes his eyes, and just like that, the memories are right there in his mind's eye with a vividness that makes his heart beat faster and his cock harden against the seam of his trousers, and he sighs and lets it happen, burying his face in his arms and helplessly pressing his mouth to his own warm skin.

 

**Back then, at the Ministry**

Harry wants. He _needs._

He's on fire, and it's like nothing he's ever felt before. Malfoy's behind him, close to him, and while both of them are still stupidly whispering things like, “No, no, this is wrong, we can't,” and “Fuck, this can't be happening,” “There has to be an antidote, _somewhere_ , we just have to -” the urge to flee each other's company is swept away by lust.

Harry turns around, and Malfoy is right _there_ , and even though he's a boy and an insufferable git and his enemy, Harry doesn't care in the slightest. He doesn't care; instead his hands entangle in the sleeves of Malfoy's black robes and pull him closer, as if he's done it a thousand times before. Harry angles his head and licks his lips, watching Malfoy's pupils dilate.

The next moment, they're kissing desperately, frantically, neither of them holding back, neither of them giving in. It's slick and hot and Malfoy's tongue is curling around Harry's and, _oh, yeah, just like that_ he's sucking on Harry's bottom lip, nibbling at it with sharp white teeth. Harry moans, deep and low in his throat, and the noise is swallowed by Malfoy's incredible, wet mouth.

“God,” Harry whispers, “God, Malfoy, _more_ ,” and Malfoy obliges and sucks at his tongue until Harry thinks he'll faint with the intensity of it. Harry's hands have found their way into Malfoy's hair, and it's impossibly soft under his fingers. He tugs at the silky strands and gets an approving growl in return. His other hand clings to Malfoy's robes, clenched in the fine fabric, feeling the heat Malfoy radiates like a furnace.

Their mouths part. Malfoy's lips are red and swollen, glistening. Harry still tastes him in his mouth and makes a helpless whimpering noise. Malfoy leans in again, attaching his lips to the sensitive skin on Harry's neck, licking his way up to his ear and biting the earlobe, softly, until Harry gasps and shudders with the sensation, moistness and warm grazing breath on the sensitive skin of his nape where sometimes even just the tickling of his own hair is enough to make him squirm.

It's almost too much and, at the same time, not enough, not by far, and Harry shifts his stand, edging even closer, inserting a thigh between Malfoy's legs and pressing his aching, hard cock against Malfoy's hipbone. He feels Malfoy's erection hard against his own leg, and nearly goes mad with a surge of desire.

“Oh, fuck,” he whispers. “Oh. God. Malfoy. I need – I want -” and Malfoy responds by biting hard down on his neck. Harry jerks and arches into it, muffling his cry in the hot skin on Malfoy's shoulder where the robes have come miraculously undone.

Malfoy's hands are all over him now, sliding over his back and his shoulders, entangling in Harry's hair for a moment and wandering downwards again until they reach Harry's arse, gripping him and hauling him close, until they grind against each other in a frantic, irregular pace.

Harry's breathing hitches when Malfoy's fingers slip beneath the waistband of his trousers, his fingertips caressing the soft skin at the small of his back, then wandering lower. He exhales sharply, pushing back into Malfoy's touch.

“Come on,” Malfoy whispers close to Harry's ear, breathless with the same kind of desire that makes Harry's toes curl, causing Harry to shiver and dig his fingers in the flesh of Malfoy's upper arm. “Come on, please, I...” and the hoarse, throaty whisper is so unlike anything else Harry's ever heard, and his cock gives a throb against the fabric of pants and trousers.

Harry knows he'll agree to everything, anything, whatever Malfoy wants, whatever it is, as long as it involves more kissing and more touching and – bloody hell, he can't _think_ \- but they're still standing in the hallway, in front of the elevator, and if anyone comes down here or Percy and Umbridge come back, they're on display for all the world to see, and yet he needs to get rid of his clothes _right now_.

“Not – not here,” Harry murmurs, his hands now trying to find a way under Malfoy's robes of their own volition. “Malfoy. Malfoy. Not -”

With apparent reluctance, Malfoy detaches his lips from Harry's neck, and the loss immediately hurts, pains Harry deep inside. He holds on to Malfoy, clinging to him now, his hips constantly grinding against Malfoy's.

Malfoy looks around, his eyes wide and dark and delirious, and he's stunningly beautiful.

They won't make it far; there's no use in even trying, and Harry pulls at Malfoy's robes and backs off until his back hits an unknown office door with a heavy thud.

Then Malfoy pins him to the door and they kiss again, and this time, Malfoy's robes come off, and Harry's shirt is pulled up as far as possible, baring his stomach and chest to Malfoy's gaze, Malfoy's hands and his amazing mouth.

When Harry's rational mind finally manages to object again, Malfoy is sucking bruises into the skin just below his collarbone, and Harry's nails leave crescent marks on Malfoy's back. Harry's panting, unable to form words, not that there would be any use in speaking when all he has to say are variations of “Yes, more, now,” but he manages to draw back one hand to reach for the door handle, and fortunately the office is unlocked and the door opens. When the solid surface gives in, they almost fall down, as Harry can't balance Malfoy's additional weight by himself. They stumble into the room; Harry turns around to see where he's going, and Malfoy draws the door shut and follows him closely. Before Harry can do so much as find a suitable place for _anything, whatsoever, really_ , Malfoy is behind him and pushes him against a desk.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Harry breathes, supporting his weight on his hands and arms, while Malfoy's arms wind around him and Malfoy's lips explore his nape and his tongue licks a path down his spine, pausing only to divest him of his shirt. Harry obediently lifts his arms until the shirt is off and Malfoy's lips and hands are all over him again.

He pushes back, bringing Malfoy's erection in contact with his arse, and it feels – it _feels_ – Malfoy groans, his hands settle on Harry's still-clad hipbones and draw him in. Malfoy's rubbing against him now in a slow, deliberate slide, and Harry's patience snaps and he reaches back for Malfoy's fly, fumbling awkwardly from his position but he doesn't want to turn around. He has to get Malfoy naked. Malfoy's mouth goes slack on his shoulder and Harry hears him make a pathetic, keening noise, telling him how Malfoy's just as desperate and broken as he is.

Malfoy's hands take control; he opens his fly and pushes his trousers and pants down until they pool around his ankles. Harry tugs at his own zip, not caring whether he tears the worn fabric or not; the trousers have to go, _now_. And then they're finally gone and Malfoy's hand closes firmly around his leaking erection.

Malfoy's hard, slightly slippery cock rubs against the crease of his arse, and if Harry had ever imagined something like this, which he hasn't, he would never have expected it to feel, “So good, Malfoy, move, fucking _move_ ,” so dirty and wrong and “Oh, God, yes, _that_ ”, and _why the hell_ has he never thought of it before?

He's in a daze, vision blurred and brain fuzzy, everything coming together in heady rush of sensation. The smell of sweat and musk is heavy in the air, and Malfoy's hands and mouth and cock are everywhere, Malfoy's taste lingers in his mouth.

Sweat and precome ease the slide of Malfoy's cock between his buttocks, and the slide of Harry's cock in Malfoy's hand too, while Malfoy's fisting him hard and fast, _perfect_ , so unlike Ginny's tentative touch and so much better. Harry turns his head, inhaling Malfoy's scent, dizzy and too far gone to recognise his own voice when he begs for more, or to catch Malfoy's incomprehensible, hoarse murmurs. Whatever Malfoy mouths in the taut skin of Harry's back is likely filthy and scornful, but it doesn't matter; not now, not when Harry's so close already.

He feels it in his balls and low in his spine, while his thighs are trembling with exertion and he's making mewling, pleading little noises that seem to spur Malfoy on all the harder.

He's not the only one who's close. Malfoy's shaking badly, stroking Harry without any finesse, rough and desperate, and Malfoy's cock is thick and hot in the slide of Harry's cleft, against his hole and his balls.

“I want to have you,” Malfoy whispers, barely audible under his fast and laboured breath, “I want to fuck you, _fuck you_! I want to hear you scream and beg while I take you, I want to come deep inside you - ah, you feel so good, Harry, oh, fuck, I'm going to...”

Harry whimpers, it's going to happen any second, his orgasm is imminent -

Malfoy bites down on Harry's shoulder, and Harry comes hard, crying out and spilling all over Malfoy's fingers and his own belly, and Malfoy stills behind him a second later and shudders, coating Harry's arse and his thighs with his release. He sags immediately afterwards, slumping down on top of Harry. His weight feels like tons of lead, and Harry's legs almost refuse to hold him upright. It's hard to keep breathing, but he manages, and that's pretty much _all_ he manages for quite a while.

They're both on the floor, and Harry has no memory how they got there. His breath has finally evened out, and he's slowly, very slowly, regaining the ability to think.

Which is most definitely not a reason for joy, not after what just happened.

Harry refuses to think. He refuses to open his eyes. He refuses to acknowledge he _exists_.

He hears Malfoy shift and move, quietly. There's the rustle of fabric, the sound of something – Malfoy's trousers, most likely – being zipped. And then a very tentative touch to Harry's shoulder, and Harry tries hard not to flinch and opens his eyes.

Malfoy's kneeling next to him. He's still flushed and a complete mess, and his eyes are veiled and guarded. “Are you – Potter, are you all right?” he asks in a low voice.

Harry wets his dry lips. “I -” he starts, then falters. “I guess.” He's not all right, he thinks in a flash of panic, maybe he'll never be all right again, and he can't stand to look at Malfoy and keeps his eyes glued to the floor.

“Right,” Malfoy says. He rises slowly to his feet. “We should – we ought to -”

Harry gets up too. It's awkward and completely embarrassing; his trousers are tangled around his calves and he's all too aware of the sticky mess between his legs. He has to get out of here, before he loses it completely, before anyone finds them, or Malfoy says something derogatory and Harry hexes him into oblivion and kills himself afterwards. And before he encounters another of these goddamned fucking mouslings.

_Mouslings._ He wants to squash them, every single one of them, and he nearly succeeds in distracting himself from thinking of what just happened, indulging in fantasies of senseless violence instead.

Harry doesn't know at what point he's lost his glasses, but when he's dressed again and runs a nervous hand through his hair, Malfoy approaches him cautiously and holds them out to him.

Harry snaps them from his hand with a short “Thanks,” that sounds more like a declaration of war than like a real _Thank you_.

“I'm sorry,” Malfoy says, completely unexpected, and Harry stares at him.

Suddenly his rage has a target, and a very justified one at that. “Malfoy, if you apologise one more time, I swear to Merlin I'll kill you, and then kill you again!" Harry says through gritted teeth, his hands curling into fists. “And if you ever, ever talk to anyone about -”

“Do you really think I'm that stupid?” Malfoy asks, voice rising in volume, and this is better, this is familiar, this Harry can deal with easily. “It's not as if I were eager to go around and announce I just had sex with _you_ , of all people!”

“Could've fooled me,” Harry says venomously. “The way you're always seeking attention, you'd probably mistake it for a good idea to tell everyone you've shagged the Saviour of the Wizarding World!”

Malfoy is furious now. “Fuck you,” he snarls, draws his wand and presses it at Harry's throat before Harry can do so much as blink. “For that, I could kill you, you pretentious wanker. I've just cheated on my fiancée, Potter, my _fiancée_ , and if she ever finds out, she'll make my life a living hell, and my parents will murder me. And I swear, if you keep being an arsehole about this, I'll curse you and your friends and your _poor_ blood Weasel family until all that’s left of them is a heap of rotten flesh and maggots. Are we clear?”

Harry refuses to answer, glaring at Malfoy with all the hatred and contempt he's able to invoke. “Piss off, Malfoy, and don't you dare threaten me and my friends!”

“I said, _are we clear_!” Malfoy shouts at him, his wand digging painfully in Harry's flesh.

All of a sudden, Harry's rage is gone, and all that's left is bone-deep exhaustion. “Fine. _Fine._ Just get the fuck out of here, and leave me alone. Believe me, it's nothing I'd ever want to think, let alone talk about again.”

Malfoy lowers his wand, turns and, without another word, leaves the room.

 

**End of September, again**

Okay, Harry thinks, so pretending it never happened hasn't exactly been the most sensible course of action. He's told himself it was only because of the mouslings, and it only felt good because he'd been enchanted.

His subconscious mind knows better.

He dreams of Malfoy often, of the things they've done and a couple of others they haven't, and even of things he's never thought of doing before, not even with a woman, not even with Ginny. He dreams of Malfoy on his knees in front of him, his mouth obscenely stretched around Harry's cock, and Harry wakes up rock-hard and so close to the edge it takes only a slight touch to his prick to make him come.

If it were only for the sex, Harry wouldn't worry about his dreams as much. But more often than not he dreams about other things that are much more disturbing. He dreams of playing a Quidditch match against Malfoy, and it's not the Snitch he's seeking for, but Malfoy himself, blond hair gleaming bright in the sun, flying just out of reach, regardless how much Harry struggles to catch him. Malfoy's throwing his head back and laughing and the next moment he disappears and Harry's surrounded by mist, trying to find his way out, completely lost, and wakes up with his heartbeat going crazy, shaken to the core.

Or he dreams of the Department of Mysteries, and just like in his fifth year at school, he has gone there to find the prophecy, but he's alone. He knows the way and heads for the line of shelves where he knows the prophecy is stored away. Just when he's about to reach for it, it's yanked away from him, and Voldemort is standing in front of him, laughing with his snakelike features, more a hiss than a real laughter. Harry can see Malfoy's face in the glass ball, pale and desperate and mouthing words Harry can't hear.

“You should have listened, to me,” Voldemort says cruelly, and then his face changes and he turns into Dumbledore, who smiles at Harry kindly. “Harry, my boy, I'm so sorry, but there's no other way. It's for the Greater Good,” and he shatters the glass ball and Harry hears Malfoy scream and sees him writhe in agony on the floor.

It's been a long time since he dreamed of Voldemort, and that's it's Malfoy who's responsible for it is frightening, to say the least.

The longer Harry ponders on it, the harder it becomes to keep lying to himself. He's never been a coward, so maybe it's time to acknowledge the truth.

He might, possibly, be the tiniest bit gay.

Not that it's a big deal, it's just – unexpected. He's twenty-one years old, one should think he'd have realised it much earlier. But he's never lusted after his dorm-mates or his fellow Quidditch players. He's never thought of Ron's blue eyes while wanking, or Dean's lean but muscular chest, or Oliver Wood's broad shoulders. It's only fair to mention that he had been rather occupied in his teenage years with fighting Voldemort and doing all the hero stuff, but surely there should have been some signs along the way?

To be completely honest, Harry feels... betrayed. If only he had known, he wouldn't have spent the last two years waiting for his true love to appear at his doorstep, moping around and wallowing in self-pity. If he'd known, it wouldn't have come as a surprise when Malfoy kissed him and it felt inexplicably _right_. No wonder he's a tad obsessed with Malfoy now.

It's like appeasing one's appetite with rusk because one doesn't know there's something better, like, say, chocolate, and then, when eating a chocolate frog for the first time, discovering it tastes like heaven and one might think it were the best thing in the world.

Harry doesn't know how he's ended up comparing Malfoy with chocolate frogs, especially since he _likes_ chocolate frogs, and even after years of consuming them with increasing regularity, they've lost nothing of their appeal, and he still prefers them to other kinds of chocolates... _That line of thought has to stop right here._

There's only one thing left to be done. Harry gets up from his couch, swaying slightly, and heads for the bathroom.

Naked, under the shower with his back with to its steady downpour, he takes a deep breath. He coats his fingers in bath oil, knowing pretty well how good it feels to use it for his usual wank. His cock is hard already, and it won't take much to take him over the edge. But that's not what he wants, needs to do tonight, and so he reaches behind himself and carefully pushes a slick finger inside.

A few minutes later, with two fingers as deep in his arse as they go, bringing himself off with brutal, fast strokes of his right hand, it's the thought of Malfoy that undoes him. He's picturing Malfoy's fingers inside of him, Malfoy's cock filling him up, Malfoy's voice whispering filthy promises in his ear.

Afterwards he stands there, weak and trembling and watches the hot water wash away his release, feeling worn-out and tired and depressingly sober, but also, in some way, oddly relieved.

 

**Middle of October**

It's just after midnight, but only Harry, Ron and Hermione and Ginny and Michael are left at their table. George and Luna left a few minutes ago, to continue celebrating the market launch of ‘Mousling Marbles’, Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes’ newest invention, in private.

Michael is sound asleep with his head buried in his forearms. Ginny's head is resting at his shoulder. Her eyes are half-closed and she's humming, contentedly.

Ron and Hermione are both listening to the band, Ron's holding Hermione's hand while she sips her wine and looks thoughtful and relaxed.

Harry is slightly inebriated and feels in peace with the world. Almost. He's just drunk enough to be a little reckless.

“Hypothetically speaking,” he breaks the silence. Although it's not really quiet in the pub, with the band still playing, but his voice is well audible. “Hypothetically speaking. What if I were gay?”

“Huh?” Ron says and turns his head in Harry's direction.

“Hm?” Ginny opens her eyes and looks at him with mild curiosity. Hermione raises her eyebrows. Harry blushes and looks down at his hands, playing idly with a beer mat.

“Er,” Hermione says, quite cautiously. “Harry – ” She and Ginny share a look he doesn't get, all womanly, secret understanding.

“Yes?”

Hermione then asks, “I don't know, are you?” at the same time Ron shrugs and offers, “Mate, if you've got something to tell us, simply get over with it.”

“No,” Harry manages. “I mean, yes, well, so what if I were? What if I am?”

All three look of him with different degrees of concern. Hermione's a little bewildered, Ginny clearly amused, and Ron obviously curious.

“Well,” Ginny says. “If you were gay, Harry, I'd suggest you stop dating _girls_.”

“And maybe you'd consider telling your friends, because they're still trying to set you up,” Hermione helpfully adds. “Honestly, Harry...”

Harry doesn't know what she's going to say, but “Honestly, Harry,” has never been a good beginning so far. He sighs. “Listen,” he says defensively. “Listen, I'm sorry. I really am. I had no idea, until recently, and now... well, I think I'm gay.”

“I think, regarding our conversation during the last two minutes, it's safe to assume we guessed as much,” Ron states dryly, and that's when Ginny starts giggling.

Ron starts grinning, and Hermione snorts and rolls her eyes, and finally they're all laughing, Harry, too, torn between relief and embarrassment and the sheer hilarity of it all, their conversation and his stupidity and the realisation he's never loved his friends as much as he does right now.

Ginny wipes her eyes with her sleeve, Hermione wipes up her spilled wine, and Michael wakes up and stares at their grinning faces blankly. Unnecessary to say they start laughing again at his piqued expression, and the evening ends with all of them more than just a little drunk.

 

**End of October**

“What about him?” Ginny asks in a conspiratorial whisper.

‘Him’ is a young man with brown hair who has just entered the canteen and goes straight to the counter to order the menu of the day. Harry can only see him in profile, but he looks good enough that way. Harry frowns. He's seen him at the Ministry before and thinks he's working for the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office, but he doesn't know for sure.

Harry just shrugs. “He's nice.” It's not a lie, and if it sounds a little unimpressed, well... it's not as if he's obligated to become giddy with excitement every time he sees a fairly attractive man only because he's gay.

Ginny frowns at him and seems to have read his mind. Or maybe she only knows him too well. “If you want me to stop, just say so,” she says and sounds annoyed.

It's been their little game since he came out to his best friends. She wants to find out his type, she says, and for the first few days, it's been funny.

“Sorry, Gin,” he apologises and digs at his food with a fork. That's when he sees Malfoy enter the canteen, together with Theodore Nott, and while Nott occupies an empty table at the window, Malfoy fetches two plates and then joins his friend there. If Malfoy's seen Harry and Ginny at all, he doesn't acknowledge it with a single glance.

It's been that way since September. They don't look at each other, they avoid each other at all costs, and although that should be better than insulting and hexing each other like they used to before, it is in fact rather unsettling.

It's never been difficult to deal with Malfoy before. They always knew how to get the better of each other, and even though their behaviour was probably childish and immature in everyone else's opinion (at least in Ginny's, and Hermione's, and even Ron's), they also knew exactly where they stood.

Since that day, well... Frankly, it doesn't help that Harry always has to recall in detail what they did together, and that his stupid heart begins beating faster, his unreliable stomach prickles with a tingling sensation, and his traitorous cock starts to harden the instant he catches sight of Malfoy, like, for example, right now.

Harry realises belatedly that Ginny's staring at him. According to her expression, she's been trying to get his attention for quite a while.

“Er – what?”

Ginny doesn't reply. She only looks at him with a single arched eyebrow.

Harry blushes.

“Interesting,” she says with a quirk of her lips, takes a spoon full of soup and refuses to give any further explanation.

 

**All Hallows' Eve**

The Ministry Halloween celebration takes place shortly after their third year's Auror exams. Harry and Ginny have spent the last few weeks preparing for the tests, and were busy last week writing them. They'll get their results in April. Until then, they'll be working with Senior Aurors, finally allowed to do actual field work. For the first two years, they were only allowed to accompany other Aurors on their routine duty, but whenever something potentially dangerous came up, they were sent back to the Ministry. It's been frustrating as hell, and Harry has been looking forward to their last year with the longing of someone who is truly bored to tears by paperwork.

He and Ginny won't be able to work together for the next few years to come – trainees and Junior Aurors are always paired with more experienced partners – but it's not as if they were joined at the hip anyway, and they'll still see each other at shift changes and meetings and for meals.

The Halloween ball takes place in a ballroom that's designed especially for functions like these, a magically enlarged hall on the first floor, close to the entrance hall. All Ministry employees are invited and expected to attend and bring their partners along, so it's an impressive surge of people who are currently populating the vast room.

Kingsley Shacklebolt greets every single one of his subordinates personally. When he shakes Harry’s hand and smiles at him benignly, Harry can't but think of subspecies 42 and the French ambassador, and he flushes and coughs and almost chokes on his own saliva.

And he can't help but notice that of the few people who wear costumes, quite a lot have chosen mouse masks and furry coats this year, and whenever the Minister lays eyes on one of them, his smile gets a little strained.

Harry can completely emphasise with his reaction.

The evening goes on, and Harry spends most of his time chatting with his friends. He doesn't drink much; there are too many strangers around, and every Auror, even a trainee, gets nervous when surrounded by unknown people with unknown purposes. But he eats, rather a lot, to make up for it and when he turns from the buffet with another slice of treacle tart, he's suddenly face to face with Malfoy.

Harry almost drops his plate.

It's been two months since he's seen Malfoy at so short a distance. He's completely forgotten how... grey his eyes are. How his robes fit his slender frame. How they make him look... make him look...

Harry stares, and Malfoy stares, too, with his mouth slightly parted in surprise, and his hands shaking the tiniest bit. Malfoy's eyes widen and darken, and Harry's plate tilts dangerously in his hands, and he licks his lips and still stares.

“Harry, move; you're in the way,” a voice announces from behind Harry. It's Ron, who's just refilled his own plate with chocolate mousse.

Harry jerks and moves. He brushes past Malfoy, and their sleeves touch and he imagines feeling the warmth of Malfoy's forearm burning him, but they haven't even made contact, so it has to be just that, imagination. Harry hastens back to his table, for once glad for his wide, all-concealing robes.

Ron sits down next to him. “Now that was a novelty,” he says, after taking his first spoon of mousse. He eyes Harry speculatively. “What's wrong with you two? Not that I'm complaining, but usually you and Malfoy can't stand to be in the same room without fighting.”

“Don't know,” Harry says. “Wasn't in the mood, I guess.”

“Mmm.” Ron applies himself to his desert.

“Malfoy really looks like shite,” Michael's gloating voice cuts in. “Getting dumped seems to get to him. Should have happened sooner, if you ask me.”

Before Harry can process the information, Deirdre has already asked, “What are you talking about?”

The treacle tart tastes like mud. Harry makes himself swallow.

“Malfoy's fiancée broke up with him two weeks ago,” Michael announces, gleeful. “At least that's what Sarah says, and she heard it from Ariadne Whitman, who was in Astoria's year.”

“What has he done?” Deirdre asks, and Harry has never been so grateful women are, generally speaking, curious and into gossip.

“Nobody knows,” Michael says with a shrug. “You know how it is; purebloods are secretive when it comes to their private life. I guess it's because of all the incest and breeding with goats, and so on.”

That comment earns him a snort from Ron, and Michael grins at him and says unrepentantly “Sorry, mate,” before continuing. “Anyway, all I know is that the Greengrasses were very ambitious of making a good match, monetary-wise, for their daughters, and the Malfoy's are _fucking rich_ , so I guess he must have done something really stupid to make her split up with him.”

_Something very stupid_ , Harry thinks, and his brain starts working on high-speed.

All he can see before him is Malfoy's face now, pale and pointy and ridiculously attractive, and yes, there were circles under his eyes, and a certain weariness that's not part of his normal demeanour.

Did Astoria find out and dump Malfoy because of what happened in September? Was it something completely different, and is Harry a fool for even considering it might have something to do with him?

Harry doesn't finish his treacle tart. He doesn't participate in the chatter spinning around Malfoy and Astoria Greengrass and their former school mates. Instead, he rises from his seat.

It's not even a conscious decision. If he had really thought about it, he would not have taken a single step.

He just follows his instinct, and somehow ends up confronting Malfoy at a table where the Unspeakables sit in a conspiratorial, silent circle. Malfoy puts his plate on the table and is just about to sit down when he looks up, notices Harry and freezes mid-motion.

“Potter?”

“Malfoy,” Harry says, painfully aware that his face is flushed with heat, his hair, as usual, is a mess, and his face wears a telltale expression. He's never been able to conceal his emotions, even less so when facing Malfoy. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”

Their gazes lock. Malfoy's nervous, and his eyes are wary, and he swallows and apparently aims for a drawl, but in the end it comes out a little breathless instead. “I'm actually trying to eat my dinner, Potter, but since you're obviously too rude to care -”

“In private.”

Malfoy's eyes widen, and his expression goes from nervous to... haunted. “All right,” he says eventually and stands up.

Harry hasn't got a plan, and he doesn't know where to go, but Malfoy steps forward and then goes ahead and leads them both towards the door. Outside the ballroom are a few cloakrooms, endowed with magical lockers, and they're empty now, as all guests are busy with eating.

Malfoy carefully ascertains no one is present before entering one of the rooms and motioning for Harry to follow him. He turns around as soon as he's inside, crossing his arms at his chest.

“What do you want, Potter?”

Harry's heart is beating madly. “I heard – I heard you broke up with your fiancée.” It's out, and he gulps.

Malfoy's eyes are like cold steel all off a sudden, any trace of nervousness vanished. He raises a mocking eyebrow. “I really doubt that. I think what you heard is that _she_ dumped _me_ , not the other way round.”

“Is it – is it because of – because – ”

Malfoy's lips curl. “Not your business, Potter, is it?”

They stare at each other, and Harry doesn't know where to begin, doesn't know what to do, what he wants or why he even went to talk to Malfoy – it's not as if they were in any way on friendly terms, and the only non-hostile conversation they ever had, not counting the one when they were eleven years old and didn't know each other, was influenced by magic.

Harry clenches his fists and blurts out, “I'm gay.”

Silence.

“You...” Malfoy begins, shakes his head and tries again. “Why... are you...” He licks his lips, runs a hand through his carefully styled hair. “Why do you even think...”

Harry can't suppress a snigger. “Very eloquent,” he says, his voice wavering.

Malfoy glares at him. “If you've only brought me here to taunt me – ”

“No,” Harry interrupts him, suddenly serious. “No.”

“Then what do you want from me?”

The question, justified as it is, takes Harry by surprise. He doesn't have an answer, and his brain doesn't provide him anything useful; it's as if all rational thought has fled from his mind. That's just as well, because verbal communication is generally overrated, and it's only one step until he's so close to Malfoy that he can see the pulse beat at his throat, and smell his scent, and kiss his incredible, stubborn mouth.

Which he therefore awkwardly does.

Since Malfoy's tense and unresponsive and apparently stunned into immobility, Harry kisses him more urgently and adds tongue and a little teeth to it, and that's when Malfoy makes a tiny sound of surrender and finally kisses him back.

They never make it back to the ballroom. They end up apparating directly into Harry's bedroom at Grimmauld Place instead.

 

**All Hallows' Day**

The impressions of this night will linger in his mind; Harry's sure of it. They're imprinted on his long-term memory now: Draco's voice whispering senseless endearments, his wordless gasps when Harry licks the hollow on his throat. The way their hands entwine as they're moving together, Draco above Harry and inside of him, fucking him with short, measured thrusts, keeping a steady rhythm until it gets too much for both of them, and Harry pleads and begs and demands, “Come on, fuck me harder, _take_ me – ”

Draco relents and sets a faster pace, takes him to a place where pain and pleasure blend into something that's incredibly good and still not enough. Draco breaks first, coming with a long, drawn-out moan, his eyes closing, his whole body shaking with the force of his climax.

Harry's bucking violently beneath him, so close, he can't, he needs to – “Draco, God, please – ” until Draco's hand finally closes around his cock and jerks him wildly. It takes only a dozen strokes until Harry's coming too, coming hard and screaming with the pleasure, the contraction of his inner muscles eliciting a long hiss from Draco who's still inside of him. Draco collapses on top of him, and Harry clings to Draco and doesn't let go while they're relearning to breathe. And neither does Draco.

It's imprinted on his memory; the way they're lying side by side on the bed, sweaty and tangled together in damp, equally entangled sheets, not speaking at all, but touching; exploring each other and taking their time with it, the light of the magical chandelier a mild golden glow all around them.

Contented sighs and hums and shared breaths continue for a while, until it's breathy moans and shaky inhalation once more. They end up with Harry on top of Draco, his hips cradled between Draco's thighs, their cocks sliding against each other, coated in a mixture of come, sweat and lubricant; the orgasm approaching slowly this time, a low burning desire leading to an almost gentle release.

They fall asleep wrapped around each other and seem to wake up every other minute or so, not being used to sharing a bed with each other, or, in Harry's case, with another person at all.

Early in the morning, Harry gets up, checking the house like he often does, a familiar part of his routine. He uses the loo and brushes his teeth, and decides that sex with a bloke definitely is a lot messier, especially if one is... well, on the receiving end of it, so to speak. There's dried come _everywhere_ , a substance that becomes a lot less appealing every moment it's separated from its original source.

Cleaning spells will come in handy. No pun intended.

After returning from the bathroom, he stands in his silent bedroom and watches Draco sleep, the light of the early dawn changing his features into something different, something new; pointy chin, slight frown, parted lips, and somehow, it's now quite the most beautiful sight Harry's ever seen. Colours aren't quite distinguishable in the twilight, but Draco's hair and skin are luminescent against the dark bed sheets Harry knows to be a deep purple, but that currently appear black.

Draco's breathes are deep and even, accompanied by the nearly invisible rise of his back when he inhales. He's lying on his stomach, face turned to one side, one arm buried beneath the pillow, the other next to his head.

Somehow, to Harry, it seems as if he belongs here, as if the house has been incomplete without Draco being in it, breathing and laughing and fucking and sprawling on the bed like a lazy, overgrown feline.

It's better not to mention that to anyone, ever, least of all Draco. Harry doesn't want to be called a girl more often than necessary.

He slides back under the blanket. Draco wakes during the process with a sleepy, protesting noise, and opens his eyes the tiniest bit.

“Potter?”

Harry stills for a moment, unconsciously holding his breath.

Draco blinks, once, twice, focussing. Then: “Where have you been?”

“Nowhere. Bathroom,” Harry replies quietly.

“Mmm. Guess I'd better go home.”

“No. Stay,” Harry immediately says, trying not to make it sound like he's pleading.

He's rewarded with a small, unexpected smile. It's drowsy and soft; private; and just like that, Harry's undone. His breath catches in his throat and he can't prevent the sheepish, answering grin that sprouts on his own face.

Draco shifts closer and puts his head on Harry's shoulder. “You're such a girl, Potter.”

And hasn't Harry foreseen exactly _that_.

Draco's warm and pliant in his arms, and he shows no inclination to move, now that he's established he's only staying for Harry's sake. At least that's what Harry thinks his objection was about. Arrogant bastard.

“Go back to sleep. 'M not going anywhere,” Draco murmurs, pressing his lips against the soft skin of Harry's collarbone, a tiny, moist kiss that lingers. “But you'd better have breakfast ready when I wake up.”

Harry knows better than to say something really stupid or incredibly soppy in return.

He's not sure what will happen. He doesn't know how his friends will react to this, or what Draco's friends and parents – oh, good God, his _parents_! – are going to say.

They have yet to manage a conversation that doesn't end with going for each other's throats.

He probably needs to find a way to convince Draco of the necessity to do so in the first place. There is, however, no way Harry's giving up sex with the git ever again. Because sleeping with Draco is like chocolate frogs, but also like truffles, and treacle tart, and apple pie, and a few more things that don't cross Harry's mind at the moment. Like anything Harry has ever wanted, or needed.

And if it requires breaking in a dragon reservation and stealing a breeding pair of subspecies 42 mouslings, well, sacrifices have to be made. People still call him a hero at times, and where's the point in that if he can't overcome a minor obstacle? Harry's pretty confident he'll manage. Somehow.

Now that he's finally found what's been missing, he's going to hold on to it, and consequences be damned.

He won't let it go.

 

 


End file.
